


Guerrilla Mercenaries

by ajfessler



Series: The Marksmen [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, BAMF Tony Stark, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6672274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajfessler/pseuds/ajfessler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decades before Afghanistan, years before Budapest Phil Coulson was merely an exemplary agent under the direct supervision of Deputy Director Fury. All he wanted to do is be underestimated by the entire world. Unfortunately, he's drawn the eye of a legendary group of assassins that only exists in rumors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Operative

**Author's Note:**

> AU canon divergence. This is a sort of prequel to anything and everything Marvel Cinematic Universe. The primary focus will be on Phil. Thrown in will be several chapters from different points of view. This will be to explain how Phil, Clint, and Tony all converge in my new timeline. The timeline is flexible between chapters and I'll add the year to the top but please feel free to leave a note if things aren't grooving. - Aj.  
> The idea for this opening scene was derived nearly entirely ( and the dialogue completely borrowed) from madHATTERo0's youtube video S.H.I.E.L.D. Origins | Hawkeye https://youtu.be/teZImlcmVng  
> Go, watch, enjoy. :)

1985

It was a power suit kind of day. A plain gray, white shirt and black unadorned tie; plain, simple, and elegant. Wrapping the jacket around his shoulders always felt like giving himself a mental boost. His hair was orderly combed and parted the same way as every other morning. His reflection telling him that he was forgettable and banal. The preferred mode of operation. Colleagues viewed him as an office drone, a necessary evil. There were only a select few which could see past the facade. His colleagues underestimated him. Miscalculated his ruthlessness in the face of his placidity. Overlooked an impeccable skill set because they couldn't find the value of being invisible. 

Phil was in a good mood that morning. In front of him on the security camera sat a man who wouldn't underestimate him again. No matter how he dressed or how he presented himself. He didn’t even know the operative’s name. All he required the fact that the operative went against S.H.I.E.L.D. elite and triumphed. Walked away from everything but drone fired missiles. Phil had assumed that the man would be D.O.A., dead on arrival.

The operative had amazed him. His medical staff had informed him that not only was the operative not dead but had been coherent. Pronounced stable for interrogation. A feat which impressed Phil beyond comprehension.

The agencies favored interrogation room was a simple square room. A container with mirrored walls and tiled floors. Everything harsh and easy to clean. In the middle of the room, there sat a single individual. This was the kind of person he had been looking to recruit for his brain child. His brain child being a team of unusually talented individuals. Individuals brought together to face extraordinary circumstances. He didn’t let any of that show, though. First, he had to figure out who and what the boy before him actually represented.

Upon entering the room pale blue eyes snapped up to meet his own washed out gray. The first thing that Phil noticed was that the operative in front of him was terrifyingly young. The eyes looking up at him appeared glazed over in pain. They probably were to a point since S.H.I.E.L.D. had just blown him up. It was a pleasant surprise to Phil when he observed the exceptional mind behind those vibrant eyes. It didn’t change the fact that the operative in front of him couldn’t be much more than sixteen. He would have to mind himself. A mind that sharp would be observing, and memorizing his every word and action. Overlooking the assumed age Phil was sure the following conversation would be a challenge. To see what he could get in response to his questions. Phil loved challenges. His primary goal wasn't verbal answers. There were many different ways in which he could gain answers without verbalization. 

Allowing a small smirk to trace across his face as he stated, tone amused and almost gentle:

“You made my men, some of the most highly trained professionals in the world, look like a bunch of minimum-wage mall cops. That’s hurtful.”

Observing, he waited with bated breath for several heartbeats. Hoping the operative in front of him would divulge something; intentional or not. It would be something small, something that most interrogators would overlook. A micro expression so small and fleeting it might not have existed at all. His colleagues would dismiss the visual cue as nothing; as insignificant. Phil wasn’t most interrogators though and he was definitely a cut above his colleagues. So he regarded the operative like a hawk as the corners of his prisoner’s eyes twitched upwards. A fraction of a degree towards amusement. It was nothing, and at the same time, it was everything. He had obtained greater success with less information. He could crack this prisoner, it would just take time and time was something Phil had in droves. 

Allowing his smirk to fade he continued in the same soft almost amused tone 

“In my experience, it takes someone who received similar training to do what you did today."

No visible reaction to his pronouncement; Phil wasn’t worried, though. It was a statement of fact which wouldn't elicit any sort of strong emotional response. Phil forced himself to acknowledge that conditional suppression was a possibility. Forced himself to acknowledge that the operative could have received conditioning about his training. If that were the case any facial cue Phil might have garnered wouldn't be detectable by the human eye. It wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. 

Phil wasn’t a gambling man, though. He would need more than just a brief glimpse of amusement at the bumbling of his agents. What he wanted the most was a name, even a code name which he could run through their databases. Something to start a profile for the operative with. An organization would also be helpful. If only so he would know how to sweeten his recruitment speech when the time came to try and sway loyalty.

The interrogation process was a delicate operation that so many agents rushed. Getting angry, yelling question after question after question. Phil had always found that taking the time to speak in a calm and earnest manner procured him better results. Whether he was speaking with agents or prisoners. He was reasonable, he was friendly. His adversary overlooked his questions because of his approach. He appreciated their arrogance. 

Clasping his hands in front of him he asked 

“Why don’t you tell me where you received your training?"

Continuing his statement he asked with a veiled hint of sarcasm

"Pakistan, Chechnya, Afghanistan?”

There were few countries in the world with the means to provide espionage training. At least of the caliber that Phil had observed from the operative. Even fewer which had the resources to provide training at all. Phil had no indications of where the operative had trained. As it was it took a special kind of training to cause the sort of precision mayhem the operative had engaged.

The response to his statement was anger. The face before him displaying a slight pursing of the lips and mouth and pinching around the eyes. It was almost a full expression. The surge of warm pleasure tingled through his body at the sight. He let it run its course before allowing common sense to reinstate his unflappable calm.

The operative wasn’t a terrorist from halfway around the world. Phil hadn’t honestly expected that to be the case. The teenager in front of him was blonde haired, with crystalline blue eyes and a fit physique of six feet or so. Which just wasn’t the usual sort of soldier that tumbled out from the Middle East. Terrorists didn't work alone. That was an acknowledged fact in the spy world, even spies didn't work alone. Phil surmised the operative was either something more or something less than a terrorist. He also had to be something more than a home-grown psycho-political activist.

With a slight shake of his head, Phil allowed a hint of condensation to color his voice as he remarked

“No, you strike me more of the soldier of fortune type. Certain groups pay well for a good mercenary like you.”

His response from the operative about being a mercenary was an entire facial expression. The expressions he could discern with the most clarity were rage and disgust. To further examine the expression Phil would need to review the security footage. Phil was positive though that there were more clues into the motivation of the operative. Motivations hid right in plain sight. For the moment though it was obvious that whatever had driven the prisoner it wasn’t money. Or most likely it wasn’t just money. 

The operative in front of him had compromised hundreds of classified operations. For a moment, a flicker of unease sifted through his mind. Countering a pseudo-government agency took significant skill and extensive planning. There were frightfully few reasons other than money to even make the attempt. Motivators which encouraged that sort of loyalty were most often religious in nature. The motivation of the operative in front of him would have to be something powerful. Phil didn't know if his agency would be able to prepare for an assault from an unknown entity. Especially not one that inspired such extreme loyalty in its soldiers. Who were then willing to risk life and limb for a reward which was intangible currently. Kamikazes were always perilous to his health.

It was the time to change tactics, though. He had gotten the initial result he was striving towards the moment. So he gave a minor frown as he asked: 

“Who are you?”

It was almost disappointing after the full expression to get no further reaction. He wanted to sigh in disappointment. His agency always found out the details. Why did their prisoners always attempt to hide? It would have been better if the man had just been upfront about the information. It would have made his job faster and easier. Fewer logistics forms to fill out.

Shaking his head he stated in an echo of his thoughts, 

“One way or another we find out what we need to know, we’re good at that.”

Those unique blue eyes crinkled upwards at the corners to convey amusement once more. Phil almost returned a smile in response. It was a rapport, a small one but a rapport all the same. Something was better than nothing.

The chirping of his pager made him almost scowl. Phil thought he had trained his technicians better. They should have known that an emergency was the only interruption he would tolerate. Looking back up at the operative in front of him he said, irony-heavy in his voice as he walked out of the room.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

When he returned his contained operative had disappeared into thin air.


	2. A Carnies Life for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George tries, Clint knows things but doesn't know others and Barney suffers because he's a kid in a bad deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ ME!  
> -THERE IS A DELIBERATE ALLUSION TO RAPE OF A MINOR! If that's an issue go away.  
> -I'm not sure if this needs to be stated or not but there is also blatant physical discipline and what would be physical abuse by today's standards!  
> \- Clint is born in 1970 because reasons.  
> \- Updated warnings because I forgot I was cruel and unusual to Barney Barton.  
> \- Updated tags to reflect updated warnings.  
> \- Added Original Male Character tag to cover OMC who will only be referenced in passing after this chapter, if at all. There are actually several Original Characters but only one who has a direct impact on the story. The chapter wouldn't write any other way.  
> \- ( ~*~ ) = a POV change.   
> \- Look for updates about weekly at the longest, especially after I run through what I've got notes over currently. FYI, the next update might take a little longer, Steve is being obnoxious and demanding I write his chapter which might not even make it into this whatever it is. I'm trying to stop this before IM1 then pick up the MCU events in different stories. - Aj

1974

The carnies called him Old George even though he wasn’t all that old. The bearded lady and the fat man both were a decade older than him easily and the midget half that again. He’d always told those too curious to keep their traps shut that hard lives left hard marks. Even though it had been years before for him, Vietnam wasn’t so far removed from his memory that he had forgotten the hell of those putrid jungles. He’d been known as George Adams then, had been full of prideful hubris and youthful indiscretions. These days he knew better. Once you stare death in the eye like an equal, things changed an awful lot. Priorities changed. These days he just looked to himself and kept sharp eyes out for things being wheren’t they weren’t to be. 

George had been put in charge of the menagerie and ran the gambit when it came to the exotics Carson’s insisted on dragging around from show to show. Most times just making sure the beasts were fed and watered. Weekends always required the poor things receive a bath. Schedule always had them in big towns for two nights instead of one. Everything needed to be ship shape for big turnouts. Keeping track of tetchy animals just meant he’d gained a sharp set of eyes and a pair of ears that heard things before there was something to hear. So it wasn’t a surprise to George when a set of boys, one no more than a baby came trundling around George happened to notice. 

Not soon enough to keep the bigger of the two out of the clutches of the lecherous Anders Gemein. He’d heard those same pained whimpers often enough from more than one boy. Had seen the blood stains too. The soft ones looking for a thrill, they never lasted long. Most runaways who were trying to join the circus weren’t too proud to run again when they decided it wasn’t suiting. The ones who stuck around the longest were the ones coming from worse situations. It always broke his heart to see em tumble in about the hard sorts that favored the circus circuits. Little boys shouldn’t have to worry about such adult conundrums. 

He might have missed his chance with the older one but the little one, he got his hands on that one abrupt like fast. Good thing he had too, those big blue eyes would have drawn a hundred other rascals quick as a pinch. Old George had set him to hauling water to and fro. Well before anyone else was caught on to the fact there was a pretty little tyke running around. Especially one without any knowledge of the world around him, ripe for the taking. Tyke was barely big enough to keep the thing from dragging the ground but this wasn’t some ritzy Carlton. It was a circus and there weren’t no one who got out of doing work. Wasn’t like water would much hurt a boy anyways and it would keep him out from underfoot of the roustabouts.

When he had the presence of mind to do so George looked out for the boy. Taught him the ways of the world and the difference between right and wrong. Did his best to teach him sums and figures. Things that were easy enough with what he had on hand. Some days though the screams inside his head just got too loud. And it was all he could do to make sure that his own chores were seen completed. Let alone have the presence to keep a close eye on a small child with more curiosity than sense.

~*~

There were lots of things Clint knew. He knew that Barney had named them Barton’s but he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone that. Clint knew that big people always hurt them in the end. Sometimes not right away, but they always did in the end. He also knew that sometimes Barney didn’t come to bed at night but only when they were stopped in a town. He knew that those same nights were when the whispers came.

(Just like that, so good.) 

Clint knew that Barney always smelled like blood the mornings after the whispers and that he would never tell Clint what happened. Clint knew that Barney would never tell because Barney had told him so. 

Clint realized Barney had sweet talked his way into being an assistant to the swordsman in a circus. He knew that their life before that hadn’t been good. Because before was when the bad hunger was always there. And the bad hunger made it hard to stay awake and made his tummy hurt so he felt sick. 

Clint also knew that it hadn’t been good because they didn’t go home like other kids. He’d watched them while at a park one day waiting for Barney. The other kids hadn’t wanted to play with him. They said he smelled bad and was ruining their fun. Clint hadn’t told Barney but the other kids had thrown rocks and sticks at him until he’d left them alone. 

That day he had watched as big people came and took the kids. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes several would go at once. One little red headed girl had been taken by the hand and lead to a house right across from the park. He had asked Barney about it later and Barney had said that the little girl had gone home. When Clint had asked why they never went home Barney had just gotten angry and told him to shut up about things he didn’t know anything about.

Clint knew that dumpsters smelled bad and sometimes you could find good things to eat in them. He knew that it was hard to sleep behind dumpsters. It wasn’t so bad to sleep under them though so that hadn’t been too bad. He had learned that most bugs didn’t want to eat him and if he just left them be they would merely walk over him without issue.

Rats, on the other hand, weren’t so nice and Clint didn’t like rats. The alley cats were his favorites. When he had a bit of extra food he knew he could bribe one of the tough toms to keep him company for a few hours while Barney was off doing big kid things. Old George said that was all bad, so Clint knew that the circus was good. 

There were also a lot of things that Clint didn’t know that Old George said were important to know. Clint didn’t know when his birthday was, or how old he was. Clint didn’t know how old his brother was either. Clint didn’t know where they had come from, or where they were going. He didn’t know if he had a mommy and daddy or not. He didn’t remember them and Barney hadn’t spoken to him for a week when he’d tried to ask.

He’d also learned a lot of things from the circus. He’d learned that Old George wasn’t really old. He’d learned that water was heavy and that Old George didn’t mind if he spilled the clear water. He also learned he’d get his ears boxed till they rang if he spilled any of the sharp smelling brown water for the elephants.

He’d learned that when he carried the bucket for really long time red painful bumps would form on his hands. Old George called them blisters. Sometimes they broke open and hurt, and sometimes when they broke they would bleed. Old George always made him wash his hands real good, soap and all when they bled. He would get the rest of the day off after he had bandaged them for reasons only Old George understood. 

He’d learned that the production manager wasn’t named Carson. And that no one actually knew who Carson was if he even existed at all. Clint didn’t really understand what a production manager did. Just that Old George called him the head boss and to be respectful if he ever did show up at the animal cages.

He’d also learned that as long as he didn’t say anything the big people would let him watch them until he got bored. The acrobats were his favorite. Marissa, the littlest one, said that she would teach him the pretty poses she used for her act if he took a bath. From there he’d learned that as long as he didn’t smell like shit she would tolerate him. Letting him walk through stretching routines alongside her. Elder John had caught them at it once and forced him to do all sorts of poses. Most of which caused him to fall down. Elder John hadn’t laughed at him though and had just ordered him back the next day. Clint learned tricks alongside Marissa after that. It was hard but Elder John would make it fun sometimes. 

The tightrope walkers thought he was adorable. Clint didn’t know what that meant, but he thought it made them make strange cooing noises around him. As if he, or maybe they, were some sort of strange bird. Old George had told him to give it a few years and they would stop, once they realized he was a real boy. Clint couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t a real boy. His outsides looked the same as Barney’s and Barney was a real boy, so why wasn’t he?

The best thing he learned was that he and Barney didn’t have to keep an eye out for Anders on the train. Because Anders got sick at the swaying and couldn’t be moved from his bunk unless there was a fire. This was good because Anders liked to swing his fists when either one of them were within arms range. This was also good because it meant that Barney wouldn't smell like blood the next morning. He also learned that when people were getting to be too much for the circus to handle that they would just disappear from the trains. The bearded lady loved telling stories about the people she knew that had gone missing. That scared him because what would he do if Barney disappeared? 

Clint learned the hard way that there were things for adults that weren’t things for kids. The bearded lady had caught him trying to sniff some of the white powder she had spilled on her dressing table. She had hit his hand so hard he hadn’t been able to use it for a week afterward. 

(White powder is for adults with problems chére. Are you an adult with problems?)

Old George told him about sex early on and snuck him around to show him what sex between two big people looked like. Old George made sure he knew that the roustabout leaning against the train with the townie girl was sex. Old George told him that Younger John and his wife wiggling around on their bed naked was traditional sex. Clint knew in no uncertain terms that he was to avoid anyone who coupled together. It wasn’t none of his business and Old George said there was always more water to fetch. Animals sure drank a lot of water.

Clint learned that if he wanted to earn penny candy Bernie the strong man was always willing to throw him about in his act. Sometimes Clint got hurt, though. When he got hurt and couldn’t finish the show he didn’t get any candy. The lessons with Elder John sure came in handy when Bernie talked him into a show.

The one thing that Clint learned that served him the best though was that he had truly phenomenal aim. He didn’t know what that meant, except that when he threw things they always went exactly where he wanted them too. Freddie Maciver started teaching him how to shoot a bow not long after that. In addition to hauling water for the animals, his evenings were now taken up with shooting things to impress townies. He wasn’t so sure he liked being on stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gemein = vile in german  
> chére = dear( as in yes dear) in french
> 
> Translations courtesy of google.
> 
> P.S. Chapter Four is finished and I have most of chapter three fleshed out. -Aj


	3. Circuit Board Reasoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard Stark was brilliant, but his son was a genius he just couldn't compete with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be Chapter 4 but I realized last night somewhere around two am EST that the aesthetics of the fiction wouldn't flow right if this segment came AFTER the next installment of Phil.   
> This is going to become a series I think and the next fiction in the timeline will be a collection of short stories which will transcend from 1985 to 2012. Prompts are welcome and appreciated.

1974  
In the simplest terms, the square of verdant resin infused laminate meant nothing. The copper etched along the back was worth a mere pittance. Along the front were several microprocessors whose loss was negligible. He was Howard Stark for god’s sake. Howard wouldn't have known anything was missing if he hadn't heard his son's laughter. 

Curiosity had forced him to investigate what had caused such delight. He had been shocked, to say the least at the sight he beheld. His tiny son sitting in the only clear spot on the floor with that damnable robot from Obadiah. Surrounded in every direction by bits and pieces of computers. Items he thought he recognized from several failed experiments with personal computers. 

Through the entire drive, he hadn't the fortitude to wrench his gaze away from the circuit board. The thing sat with a nonchalant innocence on his knee. The laminate glittering in the early morning light. In the grand scheme of the universe, the circuit board was less than nothing. The intrinsic value was incomprehensible.

The plain brownstone office building was nestled between a large new high rise and an aging bank. With charming views of the Smithsonian Institute opposite of the building face. On the brass plate next to the door the street number of the building gleamed with a dull shine. Overall Howard decided it was a quaint look as the car pulled up to let him out. The building showed itself to be a far cry from the dystopian opulence of his 5th avenue mansion. Howard rather quite liked it.

The sturdy steel door was painted a cheerful green and opened to his hand freely. Not even a hint of protest from the hinges. The lobby he stepped into conjured several memories of private doctors during Maria's pregnancy. Waiting with bated breath through fear and worry about the well-being of his son. The leather seats settled one on top of the other only interrupted by the occasional table. Upon whose surface sat outdated magazines collecting dust. 

He spared a brief glance at the receptionist. Her disjointed perky chatter at some unfortunate soul through her phone was cringe worthy. A mile a minute without pause for breath, snapping a wad of gum the entire time. She was pretty enough in the same manner as a sparrow. Cream pale skin, doe brown eyes and neat brown hair done in some up style his wife would recognize. It gave her a competent professional look. Under normal circumstances, he would have stopped to chat her up. If only to irritate Peggy before he commandeered her office. That day wasn't normal circumstances, though.

He strode through as if he did so daily without more than an initial glance from the receptionist. His presence didn't even cause her to pause in her conversation. There were no security guards who popped out of the woodwork to impede his forward progress. The elevator opened immediately when he pressed the call button. It was as if Peggy had been expecting him to invade her building that morning. A thought which was both disconcerting and comforting.

The elevator ride to the third floor where Peggy's office resided was as quick as even he could desire. The Carter nameplate on the door let him find the little office that she appropriated. He wouldn't have expected her to be in the middle of a long hallway. The office was halfway between the stairs and the elevator with no visible means of escape. Opening the door didn't provide a greeting of Peggy sitting at her desk. 

It wasn't what he expected from the director of a pseudo-government agency. Especially not the Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage, and Law-Enforcement Division. But he had to concede that the little room fit the women he remembered. On the walls was some sort of dark patterned paper. The paper was almost completely covered with photos, awards, and bookshelves. Shelves which were so overstuffed they had started warping under the weight of the books held there. 

Settling down in the well-worn chair in front of the imposing and immaculate desk he sighed. The little circuit board wrapped in his handkerchief came out of his pocket. Then without a thought, he had the circuit board unwrapped in his hands. He kept his fingers gentle as he traced the clumsy lines along the back. He wondered if there was another kid who could have achieved such a complicated success. A functioning circuit board was an awe-inspiring accomplishment for anyone let alone a toddler. 

Howard didn't have a clue to the finer details of what the little board was programmed to execute. He vaguely understood that it controlled the lights on the robot. Flashing through a series of preset patterns when given an external command. The how of the board hadn't mattered, didn't matter in that moment either. To Howard what mattered was that it demonstrated a particular level of genius intellect. A genius he would never manage and hadn't thought possible without a mutation. 

Letting the circuit board out of his hand to place it on Peggy's desk felt like he was losing an element of himself. The task ended up far more difficult than taking it from his son. Looking at it gleaming he felt a tangled mix of emotions. Emotions ranging from pride to despair. This discovery would only make things more difficult for his little angel. Howard was there though to illicit help in keeping Tony safe, he had little concern on how unhappy it made them. Stark men were made of iron, happiness wasn't in the plans.

He knew there were plans to put in place. Decisions to decide on. Contingencies to establish. He knew he would have to figure out testing and find tutors which would nurture his son's genius. After all, that there would be finishing school in accordance with his son's talents. Those were arrangements Howard knew how to handle. They would pave the way for Tony's genius to bloom into accomplishment. Looking at the circuit board he knew those accomplishments would be stunning. Howard only hoped that he got the chance to see his son succeed him at everything.

Startling as the door to the office banged open he watched as Peggy stormed her office. She seized control of her office the same way she had once stormed HYDRA bases. Weapon pulled and as bold as it pleased her. He tried to hide his smirk, it wouldn't help his cause of getting her to help him. The flat look of unimpressed disdain he received for his efforts told him the effort was wasted.

He watched her take her chair and eye the circuit board on her desk with trepidation. Howard held his tongue, he had known Peggy long enough to have first-hand knowledge of her temper. He also knew that she hated his life choices and the direction Stark Industries had taken. So he knew there was a lecture for him somewhere in her mind. He'd learned when they had formed the Division to just let her say her mind. He could change her opinion afterward but it was always best just to let her say her piece. Interrupting just made everything more difficult. 

She surprised him though when she said nothing and merely raised an eyebrow at him. Looking to the side of her he gave a pained smile as he asked

“Hello, Peggy dear. How are the kids?” 

Her responding glare could have melted steel. It almost made him laugh. He’d always loved her spunk. He looked her over. She looked good, still wearing that gaudy red lipstick. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't been forced to step down. If there hadn't been a scandal. If he hadn't been accused of double dealing weapons. If HYDRA had just rolled over like a good dog when they had triumphed in the war.

Peggy's response to his question was curt and to the point.

“Howard we both know that you didn’t come here to chat up a friend for old times, so do us both a favor and spit it out.” 

Nodding his head downwards at the circuit board on his desk he replied

“Tony’s going to be four in two months, I found him with this yesterday evening. The precocious whelp was using it to control the lights on that robot he got for Christmas last year.”

Those red, red lips parted in shock as she reached out to pick the board off her desk and examine it. Howard diverted his gaze to the view out the window as he continued

"I work with adults who couldn't manage that with help. I have no idea how he managed it at all. Peggy my dear, I don't know how to keep that sort of genius safe. Let alone what to do with it."

He looked back at her, she was staring at him with sympathy. It made something tight uncurl in his chest. Howard had been right. If anyone could understand he had thought, it would be Peggy Carter. Releasing a breath he hadn’t known he was holding felt a little like stepping into a warm home after a cold walk.

Peggy’s gazed traveled back down to the circuit board in question. Her elegant fingers tracing the sloppy copper work on the back before she said

"Well, I don't intend to presume to tell you how to raise your son Howard. I'm sure you know about testing and getting special tutors and such. Which makes me wonder why you're here in my office?"

And there was the downside to talking with Peggy. She knew him so well. Nodding he told her.

"I have traitors in the company. There are all the signs of a HYDRA infiltration additionally. I have been for the past year been working towards weeding out the dead weight. Except for every man or woman I fire, my hand-picked staff uncovers two more. I've had threats made towards myself and I'm afraid for my family. This newest discovery is only going to make Tony more of a target. I'm hoping for your help figuring out how to make his target smaller." 

He tried to beseech her with his gaze but Peggy's attention was fixed on the circuit board. He watched her contemplate the object of his unrest for a few moments. Praying that she could come up with something he hadn't thought of in his four-hour drive to see her. He could almost see the half dozen plans she formed. It was also clear she discard those plans as fast as she made them. 

When she looked up and caught his eyes her own were troubled. He knew then that she hadn't been able to think of options she thought he hadn't considered. She sat up straighter in her chair before she said

"Its times like this that I wish Steve were still here. He was always the best at this sort of planning." 

A hard lump formed in his throat. They all missed Steve. The worst day of his life had been when he listened to the last conversation between them. Listened to the anguish in Peggy's voice as the plane went down. As she tried to be brave and strong. Held her in his arms as she shook apart. Spent every summer in the arctic looking for the plane, for the body. For no other reason than to give her closure. 

He managed a nod as a response and she continued

"If I've understood things right, you seem to be in the middle of a game of chicken between yourself and HYDRA. I'm guessing you don't want to confront them head on?"

He shook his head no before he said

"I want to eradicate them with as little fan fair as possible. The fewer people know we weren't successful the better."

Her nod told him she had expected his answer and agreed with him. Her next statement though made his blood run cold.

"Which is fine as long as the current status holds true. Tony's genius is going to disrupt the balance, though. So the first thing I would suggest is to irreversibly restrict options. Both yours and HYDRA's. You'll have to do that in a manner which is excessive and visible. Doing so will, for the time being, force HYDRA to conform in the way we want."

Howard nodded, Peggy's suggestion was typical negotiation tactics. He had used the same thought process time and time again when bidding for contracts. With a sigh he asked

"How do you propose to declare Tony off limits? I can call a press conference about the circuit board. Push him in the public face, but that doesn't actually restrict any current options." 

He watched her nod before she asked

"How far are you willing to go to keep him safe?" 

It seemed like a stupid question when he heard it but thinking it over he thought he knew what she was getting at. Was he willing to alienate his son, push him away and force his little angel to hate the sight of him to ensure safety? Howard rubbed a hand over his jaw. He didn't know. Squaring his shoulders he made a decision. Tony's safety was what was important, not the love of his little boy. 

Looking back at Peggy he said

"I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. There isn't a line I won't cross." 

He watched her gaze soften with sympathy and pity. He tasted blood when he bit his tongue to keep the hateful angry words of reproach behind his teeth. He didn't want her pity, didn't need it. He wanted her to help him keep his son safe. Looking away let him take a few deep breaths to keep his calm. Her gentle voice when she said

"You already have a credible reputation for backing up your threats. What I need you to prepare yourself for are kidnappings. They will test you on this, you will have to be able to laugh in their face even as they point the gun at Tony's."

He just nodded. There wasn't anything else he could do. Peggy continued without actually waiting for his response. She likely knew just how difficult this entire production was going to be for him. 

She had children of her own after all.

"You will need to find a boarding school as soon as possible to send him too. Out of reach of both HYDRA and yourself will only make him safer. I would also have Jarvis teach Tony how to escape detainment and how to pick locks. I'm sure you can figure out how to hide lockpicks on him."

He nodded again. What she was saying made perfect sense. It wasn't that he didn't understand. It was horrific to think his life had brought him to this point, though. He had a funny thought that Steve wouldn't have approved of their methods.


	4. Into the Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One note, two notes, what's this about bombs and dead bodies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I view my fictions as a sort of bell curve. In that imaginary, I would like to point out that this is the peak, and it's a downward spiral to the conclusion of this prequel. 
> 
> Never fear to anyone who is enjoying this, there will be more! 
> 
> \- Aj
> 
> Updated 05/16/2015 due to a missing word... Can't for the life of me figure out how I missed it, it's not like I didn't read through this chapter half a million times before posting. Oh well. It's fixed now! - Aj

1985

His office came across a great deal like Phil himself. Underestimated and under appreciated. It was the smallest room that he could talk Deputy Director Fury into giving him. The room didn’t even have a window. He had been moved to a storage closet for a few great months during some renovation. Phil had requested not to return to a traditional office on the completion of the renovation. The director refused his request. So he made do with the ten foot by eight foot room provided. 

Along the left wall were haphazard stacks of procedure manuals. S.H.E.I.L.D. printed new copies of all six manuals every year. Phil had six sets; one set for every year he had been an agent. 

Along the back wall to the left side of the door to the office, was a set of steel shelves. He had common household cleaners stored there along with several re-purposed ammunition cans. He had stockpiled enough materials to build several bombs and dispose of two bodies. Phil liked nothing more than being prepared. To the other side of the door was a shoulder height safe. Inside the safe was clothing and a lockbox with everything he needed to become someone else. He knew it seemed slightly paranoid, but four aliases were just good sense. All of which S.H.E.I.L.D. would never be briefed on. 

The right-hand wall held bookshelves with actual books on them. He had hidden various secrets and stashes of money in them. Except for two shelves on the bottom, that contained research journals. Research journals into psychology specifically. There might also have been everything Phil could find on emotion and micro expressions. His desk chair was on wheels because there wasn’t room for it to sit out from under the desk when not in use. The handcrafted wood and had a squeak to it when rolled just right. 

The desk itself wasn’t anything special. There were more nicks, dings, scratches and gouges than anything resembling paint or stain. On top rested the clunky computer that Fury had insisted he needed. When powered on the computer proceeded to waft a putrid smell. It had vague notes of poorly laundered gym socks and burning flesh. Phil wasn’t sure why, but he was irrationally pleased about the effect. In deference to his occasional guests, he kept a small metal folding chair in front of his desk. Even so there was always a health hazard from the office door swinging into whoever was visiting.

That particular morning his office wasn't offering its usual comfort and sanctuary. His most recent covert operation had blown up rather spectacularly in his face. An operation he had spent months building painstakingly from vague bits and pieces. In fewer than twenty-four hours that cover story was destroyed. The only thing that had gone right had been the extraction plan. Said plan which had been completely altered moments before implementation. He knew it was suspicious, and paranoia whispered that it wasn't a coincidence. Phil was nothing if not adaptable, though. 

Not only had Phil gotten out of the old town but so had both of the agents who had been undercover. Phil sequestered in his office, had a technician investigating the extraction plan change. He was a great believer in rewarding pure genius and creativity. Especially the precision planning demonstrated in the revised extraction. As such there was a tentative plan in his mind for a promotion. 

His ambivalent mood was sanctimoniously ruined upon seeing a report on his desk from Maria Hill. A woman who thought herself his competition for Deputy Director Fury's one good eye. Phil, personally, wasn't sure where his opinion of Ms. Hill stood. From what he had seen, she seemed to be a by the books agent. A good quality in an office assistant. Phil also noticed that Ms. Hill had issues with deviating from a preset strategy. A trait which would get agents killed in the field. He had a trusted source in Human Resources. A source who had informed him of several complaints lodged against her. Complaints which stated an unwillingness to compromise if new information came to light. 

Her report detailed the investigation into how his operative could have escaped the facility. Phil noted that Hill hadn't found any evidence of tampering throughout the room. Hill's report stated that she hadn't uncovered any fingerprints which she hadn't been expecting. Tossing the file down on his desk, Phil resisted the urge to storm out seeking retribution. He didn't want to know what she expected to find. He didn't want to know what she didn't find. Phil wanted facts without opinion. 

He wanted a list of everyone who had touched anything in the interrogation room. Phil wanted to know if the operative had exited the room via the door or by some other means. He wanted to know about the note which he had found. What had she garnered from that?

Furious he attempted to take a deep breath to calm himself. There were few things in life which angered him more than opinions instead of facts. Especially excessively trained agents with superiority complexes. Markedly agents who provided their views during an official investigation into his operations.

During his attempt to calm down there came a knock at this door. Phil squeezed his eyes tightly closed for a long breath before he said: "Come in." The only people to knock on his door were technicians. The poor creature took one look at him and in a panic nearly tossed the file folder at him. The technician cleared out of his office as if the hounds of hell were on the chase. The man's actions tickled his sense of humor in just the right way of sadistic. Phil nearly chuckled out loud.

The technicians' report was just as disappoint as Hill's without the side of rage. The technician had at least retained enough of his mind to know that opinion had nothing to do with official reports. Other than that it was a fat goose egg of legitimate follow-up material.

The paper used for the note and envelope were high-end. But not so classy that it wasn't available at office supply stores everywhere. The ink used appeared to be nothing special. The typeface selected was a standard preset on every personal computer.

Glancing over the report again Phil frowned. Phil had nothing to use to retrieve the operative, due to a lack of empirical evidence. The two-word note stating: nice try, was infuriating enough without any added complication. Flipping through the lab results included with the report Phil came across an envelope. At first look, Phil thought it was the same envelope he had received previously. Opening it though revealed that it wasn't the same at all. 

In this note, Phil found a poem. Or rather as his eyes scanned through it, most of a poem. Phil observed the sender had used a series of random and odd capitalization. A second reading forced him to suck in a breath of shock. The oddity of the capitals almost looked like it could be a code. Writing all the capitalized letters on a separate sheet of paper gave him a phrase of gibberish. The gibberish couldn't be anything except a simple cipher. It was the only logical conclusion. Phil thought he might be looking at a simple Augustus coded phrase.

Excitement thrummed through his entire being. Turning the note over in his fingers Phil smiled. He could think of a myriad of reasons to send a coded message. The tiny ball of hope that caught fire in his chest wasn't a response he could control. If Phil was lucky, more coded communications were on their way to his hands. Messages which would lead him back to the operative.

By the end of the week, Phil had discovered he was correct. Four more notes had made their way to his desk. Slipping the notes into his suit coat pocket Phil left work promptly at five. It was the first time since he began his career that Phil had left before seven. His early Friday evening exit caused a cacophony of hooting and encouragement. Phil just ignored them all. Let the peons imagine whatever they wanted of his evening plans. He had a code to break. An endeavor which would go better in his cramped little apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more from Clint, one more from the Stark's (should be from Tony's POV) and the conclusion of Phil. An estimated 5000 words left. Prompts would be welcome to help move this from 1985 to 2012(IM1). Please?


	5. Leaving Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making memories and hard choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that estimation of 5000 more words to go? Total lie since this chapter tallies in at 3202. The last chapter is half that, and I'm not even halfway through the points I want to hit, and I haven't gotten to the final Stark chapter yet. The life of fanfiction and all that.
> 
> So I don't mind that you guys don't comment, I mean would love to know what you think and all but I don't need it. I'm going to write either way because I enjoy it. But could you leave kudos? That would be appreciated.  
> \- Aj

1983

It had been five years since Barney had disappeared. Almost ten years since Clint had come to the circus. He no longer had issues carrying around buckets of water. These days Clint had bigger issues keeping away from the townie girls looking for a tumble with an edge of danger. Clint wouldn’t say he was particularly dangerous, but he knows that he looks the part. Especially when all dressed up for his gig as the greatest marksman of all time, the amazing Hawkeye. Old George had chosen a birthday for him a few years before which had meant he could have papers that declared him officially who he said he was. The certificate of birth stated that he was Clinton Francis Barton and as far as Clint knew it was a good strong name. 

During the previous show season his Barker, Freddie, occasionally got him off hour’s gigs so he could earn a little extra money. Old George had pitched a fit about the burglary when he had found out. Freddie had mysteriously disappeared before they had arrived back at winter quarters that year. The damage was done, though, Clint had learned a slew of unsavory skills. There wasn’t a lock he had met yet that hadn’t given way to his nimble fingers. And it was easy enough to shoot an arrow with a rope secured to it giving him an escape route. The tightrope walkers had taught him every trick they knew when he’d turned up asking for lessons. He figured as long as he took the arrow with him, the circus would never get any heat. They didn’t stick around long enough most of the time as it was. 

He’d been having issues with the John’s, both Elder and Younger. That had started after Marissa had come to him nearly in tears with armfuls of makeup from her sisters. She apparently had a date with Jemmy, one of the roustabouts who was a bit shy, and had more muscles than brains. Clint had made Marissa cry when he had noticed her sister’s had donated tubes and cases that were either empty or dry. 

Clint had thrown an arm around her and let her cry herself out. Aunt Bella always said it was best to let girls do that. Saying anything would just make things a hundred times worse and make the tears last that much longer. When Marissa finished, Clint pulled out his paint bag. It held his brushes and pigments for when he stepped in as a clown. Clint wasn’t very good at being a clown, tending to be stiff in his movements when there wasn't a bow in his hands. He had offered her a baby wipe to clean her face before moving to see what he could do to help. Marissa wanted to doll up, and her sister’s had sabotaged her. Clint would fix it if he could.

Clint had put on a clown’s face regularly enough to have the basics of how to apply makeup. He also stood as muscle for the peeler ladies with enough frequency he had an understanding of the final product image. It shouldn't be that difficult or different, just fewer primary colors. Clint nodded to himself. He would attempt to make Marissa as pretty as she desired. If he couldn't, he would call in a favor from the loose ladies.

In his bag, he had amassed brushes of all sizes. He also had red, yellow and blue pigments which he could add to the white paint. It took up less space to carry the pigments than it did to bring the different color jars of paint. He also had various sizes of kohl pencils. Between the two them, Clint thought he could transform his plain-Jane friend into a soft beauty. As a final touch, he put a few curls in her ponytail with a curling iron and sent her off to finish getting ready. 

He was cleaning the makeup out of his brushes humming absently to himself while waiting for Marissa's return. Elder John had shown up just as he was returning everything to its proper place. The old man came at him with a rant about duty and an ultimatum about marrying his granddaughter. 

That had been two weeks before. Clint had snuck out from under the watchful eye of Old George. To get a question to Marissa about what happened. Only to find out that her entirely family thought they had a secret tryst going on. Marissa had been frustrated; they had grown up together. He thought of her the same way he did with Barney. Except there wasn’t the all-consuming anger that made him stupid when Marissa came up. He didn’t want to marry her; he didn’t even know if he wanted to settle down at all. 

The entire circus knew that Clint liked girls. He hadn't told anyone but Old George and Marissa that his gaze wandered farther on occasion. That long legs and gentle curves weren't always enough. Clint had only confided in Marissa about his fascination with sweaty muscles, well-tanned skin, and solid jawlines.

Old George had slapped the back of his head when he slipped back into the stock barn. Where his task of cleaning out the stalls should have been taking place. Clint explained what he had been up too in his absence while fending off a broom. Promising that he hadn’t even thought about actually shirking the task. A complete lie but to prove his point Clint had gotten the wheelbarrow out and started mucking stalls. Old George leaned against a support beam watching him. There was something dark and painful residing deep within Old George’s eyes that Clint couldn’t meet for long. When he finished, Old George had just taken his shoulder. Steered him towards the little pump in the yard. Old George had left Clint to wash up with brisk instructions to be thorough.

When he was through Old George was there with a clean set of clothes. An almost new pair of jeans, an undershirt of snowy white and a flannel to go over the top of it. They had then proceeded towards one of the performer buildings. Inside a dining room of sorts had been set up and a man in a suit sat waiting. Old George sat without any hesitation. A raised eyebrow in Clint’s direction ensured that Clint sat down expeditiously as well. 

No one talked while a kitchen aid served. Clint didn’t even know what he was eating. He recognized that there was chicken, but no chicken that he had ever seen before. It was utterly tiny, a whole bird didn't even take up half a plate, and it was all for Clint. Next to the bird were green and yellow disks which crunched when he bite them. They had a sharp taste to them and with a little salt weren't terrible. A cold green soup had also come to the table for him. He refused to touch it, and nothing short of a beating would get him to consider even tasting the strange soup. Old George hadn't pushed the issue, so Clint assumed he got away with the disobedience because of the stranger. 

The dishes were cleared away by the kitchen aid until all that was left were wine glasses. Clint had water, even though he’d started drinking with the roustabouts two years before. He could damn well hold his liquor better than half of them. It was in that lull when the stranger spoke up, voice mild and smooth, asking: “Word has reached us about a talented marksman in need of formal instruction, is this correct?” 

Clint watched Old George nod his head. Old George didn’t say anything, though, so Clint didn’t either. Clint looked closer at the stranger and realized that the man had two different colored eyes. One blue and one brown. He was transfix within the eerie gaze when the stranger said: “I have seen his stage work; he is not a performer. Good enough to draw a crowd but not good enough to keep them.”

Clint watched Old George nod again. They had told him that performing was a skill he would learn, that it was an acquired skill. But no matter what he tried he was still awkward and ungainly when in front of a crowd. Clint watched as no one said anything for a long moment. Old George broke the silence a few minutes later saying: “We’ve done just about everything we could think of to teach him how to perform. Nothing stuck, and now the acrobats are demanding his hand in marriage to their youngest. I figured it was the best time to get him out of show business. He's decent in show business, but that doesn't mean it suits him. I'd hoped you'd be able to give him a gig that does suit him.” 

Clint swallowed the lump of hurt stuck in his throat. They were trying to send him away. These odd men and women who had been the only family he had ever known were sending him away. Blinking tears away rapidly he wondered what he had done to have lost their support. The stranger spoke then replying to Old George; “Why do you think assassination work would suit him? Am I correct in assuming that there aren’t that many people dying in a circus?” 

Clint boggled at the stranger. Assassinations? Sure he’d put down horses when they had broken legs, or the llama when the yak had gouged it open. He’d also killed more rats than he rightly wanted to contemplate. The cook had put him to wringing chicken necks when he was punished with kitchen duty a few years back. But none of that was killing a person. He’d stolen things. He’d picked locks. He’d broken into banks and safes and cars without pause to consider if it was right or wrong. Was it any different killing a person? Especially if it was to keep someone else safe? Clint didn’t know and wasn't sure if he was allowed to ask either. Old George took a long look at him before saying

“I think the boy will surprise you with what he’s capable of actually. And I don’t rightly know if assassination would suit him, but all the rest that you sneaky spy ninja’s get up too? I already can’t keep him from traipsing down that road. Figured might as well give him a chance to get in with the best, the ones who pull the trigger for the right reason.” 

Clint had watched the stranger nod before that creepy gaze locked onto Clint’s own. The stranger blinked twice before asking Clint directly. With a tone which conveyed doubt without being impolite

“Well boy, what do you think? We would feed you, clothe you, and educate you. We would ensure that you had the means to support yourself when finished with your training.” Clint swallowed, that lump of hurt was back in his throat. But Old George was right; Elder John wanted him to marry Marissa, which neither one of them wanted. If Clint stuck around, Elder John would get his way eventually.

He and Marissa might be able to make it work, settle down and have a little family. Maybe continue with the circus work. But he didn’t think either of them would be particularly happy about it. Clint certainly wouldn’t be happy. He found himself nodding before he had even finished the thought. Swallowing down the hurt feeling stuck in his throat at the thought of leaving the circus he said: “I think out of my options, going with you sounds like the best deal.” 

Old George clasped his shoulder as Clint looked down at his hands. The conversation continued around him while the sound of it whited out. He couldn't quite wrap his head around leaving. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to travel, for eight months out of the year all they did was travel from place to place. But before Clint had always had Old George, and Aunt Bella, Marissa, and Digby. Digby, who had taken over the swordsman act. He had replaced Andres when Andres had turned up with his throat slit a few weeks after Barney had gone missing. 

It felt like only moments later that he was sitting in front of his little trunk in the bunk house gazing without comprehension at all his worldly possessions. Old George had given him a backpack and in it, his clothes lay packed. He was still trying to decide what to do with everything left in his trunk when slender arms wrapped around him. He could tell from the smell that it was Marissa. The lump of hurt was back in his throat and this time, it was making his eyes sting as well. He raised a hand to hold onto her wrist for a long moment before she gently disengaged her arms so she could sit on his bunk. He looked up at her and felt the first tear fall. Clint dashed away the tear with the palm of his hand as he looked away from Marissa. Her long fingers had run through his hair a few times before she said: “It’s for the best you know.” 

He nodded. He was aware that it was, that didn’t make leaving any easier. Notably, since once he departed he would never be back. He could catch a show, but he would be on the other side of the line from the moment he was in the custody of the stranger. He would be a townie. They would treat him like a townie. He would be alone. No Old George to ask questions about the wonders of the world. No more Aunt Bella to give him sex tips until he turned red from embarrassment. No more train-walking under the stars so he could feel the wind in his hair. No more late nights spent laughing until his sides felt like they were going to burst open with Marissa. He was giving up everything he had ever known. Even the few memories from before the circus he still had were hazy and undefined. Like they were more an atrocious dream than actual memories. 

Taking a deep breath, he nodded still looking away and said: “I know it is, doesn’t make it easier but I know it. Gonna miss you, Marissa.” She was in his arms a moment later before she whispered: “I love you, Clint Barton, you keep yourself safe always you hear me!”

Before he could respond, she was out of his arms and out of the bunkhouse. Clint was left once more alone contemplating his belongings. 

In the end, he didn’t take anything more than his clothes and his archery gear. The stranger was waiting by a sleek black car. Both seemed so out of place in the hodgepodge mess that was winter quarters. Clint stopped a few feet from the stranger and turned slowly in a circle. He wanted one last look to remember. With a deep breath, he inhaled the scent of horse, harsh laundry soap and the failed concoction the cook. It was such an ingrained set of smells. To Clint, it was the smell of home. He strode over to present himself to the stranger. 

The stranger nodded before opened the back door of the car. Clint got in without a question. The stranger took the driver’s seat and his journey began. It took them two days by car to get wherever the stranger was taking him.

Upon arrival, Clint could only whistle in amazement. The building was easily double the height of the big top. All around them men and women were running in neat groups of three abreast and six to seven deep. The firm hand of the stranger propelled him towards a small building. He had overlooked it when presented with the precision placement of the larger building.

Inside were locked cages. Every cage was full of boxes, about the size of a produce box complete with lids taped shut. Clint in his distraction missed the stranger explaining what he was doing there. The black woman behind the counter just gave him a bored look before slamming a box down. His startled flinch must have amused her because she smiled at him. Her accent when she said: “Let’s go cheré; everything goes into the box” sounded a lot like the bearded lady.

Frowning he asked “Everything everything, clothes I’m wearing and all?” He didn’t have any shame; he’d strip down to his skin if that’s what she wanted. If he didn't have to, he didn’t want to, though. The black woman nodded and placed a set of clothing next to the box. It was all black and was nicer than anything he had ever owned in his life. Clint nodded his understanding. He placed his backpack in the box, handed over the case he had his box and arrows in and proceeded to strip down to his skin. Once everything was in the box, Clint pulled on the clothing the woman had provided. It was all big on him, but once he had laced up the boots at least, the pants didn’t drag on the ground. The shirt was a tee shirt and while baggy didn't hinder his movement.

She gave him a once over and said: “I think you’ll do fine here cheré, just remember training isn’t forever.” Clint nodded again. The strange man leads him out of the building. The stranger left him with another man before disappearing. Clint gazed up at the man in awed horror. The new man looked like Darwin; their toothless lion had gotten a solid swipe at his face. One eye was all milky and blended into the half inch wide scar that ran diagonally across his face. There were two more disfigurements to either side of the one over the eye. 

The remaining working eye looked him over before thrusting out a hand as big as Clint's face was presented out. The new man grumbled “Names Charger; I’ll be in charge of you until we get a full class so no funny stuff, got it?” 

Clint nodded taking the hand and replied: “I’m Clint.” Charger nodded again and motioned with his head for Clint to follow him into the larger building. Charger took him up two sets of stairs and showed him into a room with eight beds in it. He was shown a bunk, given linens, towels and shower supplies. Charger also handed him three more sets of clothing and an entire sack full of sock and underwear. After that, Clint was left alone to make up his bunk and put away his things. 

Just as he was finishing Charger returned and inspected his storage. He got a nod for his efforts to be neat and handed two books. Charger ordered him to study the books carefully until it was time for supper. Someone would be by to escort him to the chow hall for the first few days. Clint swallowed past a wave of homesickness. Attempting to remind himself that this was his life now, and there was no going back.


	6. Finding a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Tony meet

There were twenty-four of them, himself included. All standing neatly in ranks with an arm’s length distance front to back and side to side. Twenty Four men and women who might just possess the necessary acuity to complete the 47-week training regimen. The Marksman assets were the most highly trained operatives in the world for a good reason. The program wasn’t for everyone and most of the candidates washed out within the first eight weeks. 

The first eight weeks were specifically designed to test the level-headedness of the candidates through a culmination of physical and tedious tasks set at odd hours of the day and night. When the candidates were being run through the program, it seemed random, but in actuality, it was an extremely choreography dance which served to weed out the impatient and hot-tempered.

A barked command of “half right, march!” twisted him out of his thought for a brief moment. Shifting a quarter turn to the right in sync with the other twenty-three candidates he waited for the follow on command. It came as expected as soon as everyone had ceased moving. Twenty-four candidates dropped to a lean-to position on their hands at the command “assume the position.” 

A near silent sigh was his only complaint at doing more push-ups. At least it wasn’t eight counts again. There was nothing in the world that Tony loathed more than eight counts, especially in ranks. With half an ear tuned into the commands of the drill sergeants, his mind shifted into the dull blankness of exhaustion.

He had entered the Marksman training program when he was six and had been permitted to complete the regimen at ten. He had been a full Marksman at eleven. Most Marksman candidates entered the training program between the ages of eighteen to twenty-five. So not only was he a prodigy but he was also an anomaly. An anomaly which no one wanted to partner with, and he was running out of time to find one. He was due to report to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in just a few weeks. He couldn’t understand what it was about him that warned potential partners away. It wasn’t like he hadn’t completed the same exacting training they had, several times in fact since Number Two had decided that since he didn’t have a partner he could fill his hours helping with the candidate program.

The Marksman assets were divided into two categories. The first commonly being called Assets. These were the men and women who were decidedly hands-on about their jobs. They were the feet on the ground agents who fulfilled missions. They were the spies in government agencies worldwide. They were the voices of reason as ambassadors and were the whispers of peace within the confines of the United Nations. 

The second category were the EOA’s, the Eyes Only Assets. In all technicalities, they were handlers rather than assets. They were the minds behind the commissions. The research analysists and hackers. They were the compilers who verified targets and validated contracts as legitimate missions. Anthony Stark, unknown to his father, was part of the second category and had been looking for three years for an Asset who could work with him. 

“On your feet, dress off” pulled him back into the real world as they all stood up and the ARAC, the assistant recruit asset candidate, called out “dress right, dress” to realign the ranks. Marching off to the chow hall was a mental relief. It meant that the drill sergeants were finished with the candidates for the day. It indicated that Tony could soon slip away from the rest of the group to his dormitory to sleep through the night without issues. 

The zombie walk through the mess line gave him a little bit of everything offered before he realized that it was catfish night. Tony made a face at his tray he followed the conga line of candidates towards the table which was set aside and designated as off limits to any other Marksman at the facility. Settling down he sighed once more at his tray. Tony hated catfish night. The fish was always soggy, he could never figure out what sort of green vegetable had been served, and it was the only meal which wasn’t served with a processed starch. Which meant there was literally nothing in the meal which would possibly fill him up until morning. Mornings were where Tony slipped back in with the candidates during breakfast. He hated eating breakfast with the candidates almost more than he hated catfish night. When he had breakfast with the candidates, he wasn’t allowed to have a cup of coffee, and it always felt like the morning started off better with a cup of coffee.

Shaking his head he liberally salted the shit out of his meal in hopes that it would cover any other flavors that might have prevailed through the cooking process. He was just about to take a bite when the guy next to him gently bumped his ribs with an elbow. Glancing over out of the corner of his eye Tony was surprised to see a teenager who didn’t look much older than himself. Wondering what the other boy was up too, Tony just continued to eat, pausing every few bites to reapply the salt. Rumor had it that the cooks put salt peter in the shakers instead of iodized table salt and Tony believed it. 

It was a few minutes before a slip of paper was surreptitiously tucked under his arm where it rested on the table. Intrigued despite knowing it was likely a horrific prank of some sort he pocketed the slip of paper to look over later. Meal times were quiet, quick and efficient. Talking amongst themselves was prohibited, and Tony had personally had enough physical training for the day. 

The relief of his tiny little dorm room where he could close the door and listen to blissful silence nearly brought tears to his eyes. It had been a very long day. He was in the process of stripping for bed when he rediscovered the note in his pocket. Opening it up he was surprised to find a short missive asking for help with uniform standards. The writer, Clint, apparently had ironing time from 0100 to 0130 that morning and was curious if Tony could give him some pointers. He set the alarm and proceeded to pass out, 0100 was going to come all too soon. 

~*~

Slipping through the nearly deserted halls of the training facility was child’s play since he had finished his own training. Tony wouldn’t put it past the night guards to have caught him slipping around but he was a full marksman, he had free access to where ever he wanted to go now. It was an amusing game though and helped wake his tired brain up for the upcoming conversation. 

Slipping past the candidate guard was laughable, the man wasn’t even at his assigned posted. Rolling his eyes Tony pulled out a pad of paper and made a note to inform Charger in the morning about doing random night sweeps so that the candidates learned the importance of following orders even if they were boring. On silent feet, he crept through the double row of bunk beds. The overhead red night lights giving everything an eerie shadow and throwing the room out of proportion. He kept to the outside pathway until he came across the boy who had sat next to him at dinner. As promised he was ironing. 

From Tony’s vantage point it looked like the other boy was running the iron over socks, which was ridiculous, socks got rolled up and didn’t have any required creasing. Shaking his head with a small smile, Tony slipped into the light not two feet from the boy ironing. His efforts earned him a squeak of surprise as he sat down next to the kid and said  
“I’m Tony.” 

The boy nodded and stuck a hand out replying  
“I’m Clint.”

His late night visits quickly became a habit, and before he knew it, Tony had not only made a friend but had developed a crush. In the small hours of the night Tony slipped into the berthing and found Clint lazily creasing tee-shirts. Tony's appearance out of the darkness no longer invoked a squeak of surprise, now he received a bright smile when he flowed out of the shadows and into the light. Tony nearly winced as Clint's smile faltered for a moment. Tony knew that his face said he had all kinds of bad news to deliver. He settled down near Clint and with a deep breath blurted out, "I've been lying to you, and I'm sorry. You'd have found out tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you myself. I'm not a candidate, I'm a full Marksman and tomorrow I'm heading to MIT to start college." 

He caught Clint's nod out of the corner of his eye. There was anger in the other man's face, but it didn't make it to Clint's voice when he asked, "So what were you doing here? Playing a game?"

Tony shook his head forcefully back and forth before he said, "No, nothing like that. I don't have a partner and since I don't and I don't stand out much Number Two decided a while back that to keep me out of trouble that could cause problems, real problems, I could fill empty spots in the candidate program while I looked for a Marksman who would partner with me." 

When Tony caught Clint's nod this time, it was more hesitant. The calloused fingers that brushed over his wrist after a moment caused Tony to start and look up. Clint's gray eyes were serious before he offered, "I'll be your partner. I can work with anyone. What do you do?" 

Tony smiled and replied, "I'm an EOA." 

He watched Clint frown before the other boy's face cleared and he said, "I guess I'll just have to finish this nonsense up and become your asset. Think you can wait on me?" 

There was an impish smile hanging around Clint's face as Tony ran his eyes over it looking for any hidden dishonesty. When he didn't find any Tony nodded and said, "I can wait. Guess you should know that I'm also Anthony Stark and that my code name is Nightmare." 

Tony tried not to smile as Clint's eyebrows shot upwards before the other boy whistled softly. Tony curled in on himself slightly as Clint looked away into the darkness for a long moment. Looking down Tony didn't notice that Clint looked back at him. Tony did, however, note the gentle fingers that ghosted under his chin and gently raised his face. Tony meet Clint's gaze head on and waited. Those were two immense facts that he had just dropped. 

A nod later, Clint told him, "I don't know who Anthony Stark is, I'm sure you'll teach me, though. But Nightmare, they whisper stories about that name among others that say he's the youngest Marksman ever and that he got his code name with his skills in knives. That true?" 

Tony hesitated for just a moment before nodding and murmuring, "That's true. I've yet to meet a Marksman who could best me with knives. Even the trainers didn't know what to do with me I picked them up so fast."

The gentle fingers which hadn't moved from under his chin suddenly shifted to caress his jawline and down his neck before lips met his own. Tony sighed and kissed back. He'd dreamed of this since he realized that Clint wasn't just another meathead Asset. That Clint was smart and funny to go along with his brash courage and idiotic morals of sticking up for anyone less well off than himself. 

When they pulled back Clint's thumb caressed his cheekbone before saying, "Don't worry, I'll make it, and then I'll get assigned to you, and it will be perfect." 

Tony nodded and said, "Guess I'll see you in a few weeks then."


	7. Phil's New Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil unlocks a riddle, learns some history and meets a new agent.

1985

The apartment Phil had chosen was small and cramped. His couch didn’t match his chair, the coffee table had white rings on it where he had sat water glasses and forgotten about them. The carpet where it peaked out from under the couch and chairs was a dirty gray beige color. His kitchen was a narrow galley style which barely had room for one person. The appliances were older than Phil himself. He didn’t care as long as they still worked. Phil wasn’t any sort of cook, so the only appliance that regularly got used other than the refrigerator was the microwave. The bedroom just barely fit his bed and a chest of drawers, there wasn’t a closet, so he had hung a bar up for his suits. The single bathroom still had tile in the powder pink which had been favored the decade before. Everywhere there was a spare bit of space there were stacks of well-read procedural manuals and bookshelves which were crammed full of knick-knacks and overflowing with redacted reports.

The first thing Phil did once he had entrenched himself on his couch was to lay the notes out in the order he had received them. Read together they created one poem. Phil would decipher it, code breaking had never particularly been his strong suit. It wasn’t that the skill escaped him, but there were others who had a greater ability than he, himself possessed. His logical brain could work through it and figure out which cipher to use. It would just take him several hours longer than anyone S.H.E.I.L.D. employed in that position. In the end, he had managed to, hopefully, break the code. The gibberish he had started with had been transformed into another poem of sorts which seemed at once both shady warning and dire foreshadowing. 

Beware the mighty King,   
His thorny crown flowers in full  
Ichor black and red, red blood  
Doth sadistic path do show  
We, who wear the Mark shall come.

His house phone was in his hand with the number to Deputy Director Fury dialed before he had thought twice about it. It wasn’t Phil’s job to decipher cryptic messages. Cryptic messages definitely fell above his pay grade. That they were for him was evident. Every last note had made its way to his desk and not someone else’s, it was impossible to mistake Phil’s office for anyone else’s. The secondary fact that the notes had come to him also made him leery of trusting anyone else. There was some knowledge that the sender didn’t want someone in SHEILD to pick up on. 

He wanted to pace, but there just wasn’t room in his apartment to do more than carefully maneuver back and forth from the kitchen to the couch. Even then, he nearly knocked down two different stacks of manuals with his movements. 

The “What?” barked across the phone lines startled him badly enough to make him jump when Fury answered. 

Closing his eyes Phil responded, “I think you should make a house call sir. I think I have something you’ll want to see for yourself.” 

Hanging up the phone before Fury could question him further took a level of bravery that Phil hadn’t known he possessed before that moment. The curiosity would ensure that the other man would turn up at Phil’s apartment before long. Settling back down at his coffee table Phil looked over his notes and the completed translation. He rubbed hands over his face and wondered what exactly he had gotten caught up in. It couldn’t be anything good if coded messages were being sent. All he wanted was to be the invisible agent. The clean-up man. 

Pacing his living area was an exercise in precision. Phil engaged in the useless outpouring of anxiety in the hopes that movement would soothe his frazzled nerves. Every pass of his coffee table brought the note cards laid neatly in a row on his coffee table into view. Which set off his nerves forcing his body to send a shot of adrenaline through his limbs. The knock on his door almost had him pulling his sidearm out of its holster before he remembered the call to Deputy Director Fury. Remembered the short statement he knew would draw the other man to his apartment. If only to discover what Phil was talking about and tell him he was a paranoid idiot. Phil could deal with that he supposed. He certainly felt like he was a paranoid idiot. 

Opening his door, he gestured for the other man to enter the apartment. The icy stare that was being directed at him forced him to swallow the formal inquiry that had been on the tip of his tongue. Taking a deep breath, Phil said with a gesture towards his coffee table “These were delivered to me over the course of the last week.” 

He watched Fury turn and take in the orderly chaos that was the notes and his code breaking efforts. The Deputy Director stalked over and took Phil’s seat on the couch to look over his efforts. Left standing in the middle of his apartment Phil made his way towards the armchair he usually curled up in to read. Waiting as patiently as he could when it became apparent that Fury was in the process of checking Phil’s work, he leaned back in the chair and allowed his muscles to relax into the embracing softness of the cushions. It was a few minutes before Fury spoke up saying “Well, this isn’t anything good.” 

Phil raised his head up to look at the Deputy Director before he said, “Shady warnings and dire foreshadowing notes are your things, not mine.” 

Phil watched the as the emotionless mask that had covered Fury’s face broke, and a smile moved swiftly across the dark features. Phil received a nod in his direction acknowledging the statement before Fury asked, “These look like the note that you found after that anarchist slipped his leash in your interrogation?” 

Phil nodded even though he could feel heat infusing his cheeks before he said, “The first one showed up in the back of the report from the technicians.” 

Nodding again, Fury asked, “Do you think, whoever they are, pose a threat to SHEILD?” 

Phil stilled for a moment thinking it over before giving a negative shake of his head and saying, “It’s clearly obvious they have the better operatives. If they wanted to take SHEILD out, we’d already be gone.” 

The smug smile playing around Fury’s mouth said the Deputy Director knew something Phil didn’t and regardless of that Phil had still managed to impress him. Watching Fury carefully as the man rearranged his trench coat to lean against the back of the couch Phil wondered not for the first time just how extensive the Deputy Director’s informant network went. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Fury stated, “I’ll see you in my office at 0900 tomorrow morning Agent.” Phil, in shocked silence, watched as the Deputy Director of SHEILD saw himself out of Phil’s apartment. Shaking his head when the snick of the door closing roused him out of his stupor Phil could only wonder about the coming meeting.

Morning came fast on the heels of a restless night of tossing and turning worrying over the meeting with Fury. Phil compensated with an extra cup of coffee before leaving for the office. He stuck to his usual routine of checking his mail, returning messages and filing the completed paperwork of the day before even though it was a Saturday morning. The routine calmed his nerves. By the time 0845 rolled around, he was able to walk to the Deputy Director’s office and knock. All without a discernible tremor in his limbs which came from too much adrenaline in a system without any outlet. 

Inside the office, the window behind Fury was providing a full stream of clear sunlight. Phil didn’t take a moment to look around as he might have under normal circumstances. His overactive mind had come up with all manner of scenarios before settling on the termination of his career as the reason for his meeting with the Deputy Director. He had broken evidence protocol after all. 

Sitting neatly in the chair he had been waved to Phil waited. Fury’s eyebrow over his damaged eye rose a hair before the Deputy Director said, “We’re just waiting for the rest of the party to arrive to get started.” 

Phil frowned, that didn’t sound like the beginning of the 'I’m sorry we’re going to have to let you go' speech he had prepared himself to receive. In fact, it almost sounded like the start of the 'we’re going to promote you' speech that Fury had given him the last time Phil had exceeded the man’s expectations. 

Phil remained facing forward as another knock came at Fury’s door and the Deputy Director called for the person to enter. The voice that came from behind him saying “Aw Agent, no” wasn’t a voice that Phil recognized the one that answered it though was vaguely familiar when it replied “See? I told you that short cut was a bad idea.” 

Phil raised both eyebrows at the Deputy Director’s annoyed yet faintly amused face before turning in his chair. There standing in the Deputy Director’s door was Anthony Stark, heir of Howard Stark of Stark Industries and the operative which had so cleverly escaped his interrogation chamber. Phil felt his jaw drop open before he turned a shocked expression back to Fury. Fury, who was now sitting with his fingers in a steeple under his chin looking vaguely constipated. 

Watching Fury gesture to the two other chairs sitting in the office, and why hadn’t Phil noticed that anomaly? Phil tried to wrap his head around the fact that the man he worked for apparently knew the teenager Phil had attempted to blow up nearly six weeks prior. A horrible falling sensation started in Phil’s gut as a feeling of disassociation washed over his mind while he watched both teenagers seat themselves.

They moved with a lithe grace that spoke of long hours of training and routine. Phil almost envied them, he had never worked with anyone who was so graceful on their feet. He sent a small prayer to any deity listening that he would get a chance to work with them and see just what their skills and limits were. It would be a pleasure to watch his operative in action without worrying about countering anything.

Returning his attention to the Deputy Director, Phil waited for an explanation. He was sure it was going to be good. Probably something trite about the secrecy being for the good of the world and how some secrets were too dangerous to just let the public know. Phil hated those lines with a passion. It was his opinion that a bit fewer secrets couldn’t hurt them, and might even help with their relations in regards to the Soviet Union.

He watched Fury nod in approval of the seating arrangement before the man said, “This wasn’t kept from you, Agent Coulson, because of national security or because you don’t have clearance or any other reason your brain might have come too. This was a test. Plain and simple.” 

Phil nodded. He’d had several of those throughout his career. This was the first one where all of his skills had been tested, though. Or so he assumed. Phil didn’t know when the analysis had officially begun, so it was hard to gauge just what had been part of the test. The close scrutiny Phil experienced from the Deputy Director lasted just long enough to make Phil consider squirming in his seat before Fury continued, “Now I’m sure you are well aware of most of the espionage agencies around the world. I’m telling you now that there is some which you don’t know about yet. I can promise you that from here on out you’ll get very familiar with them. I’ll need you to brush up on your diplomacy as well. Some of them aren’t particularly on friendly terms with us.” 

Phil nodded again but before he had a chance to say anything Fury continued, “The only one of those that matters this morning is a group of covert guerrilla mercenaries that go by the call sign of The Marksman. They are trained to be the world’s most deadly assassins. These two gentlemen,” Phil followed Fury’s gesture towards the two teenagers who merely looked back at him with blank faces. “Are here as representatives of The Marksman. SHEILD will be taking Barton into our wings as a good faith gesture. In return, Stark here will get access to our databases and archives.” 

Phil nodded briefly, showing that he was indeed still paying attention before Fury dropped the bomb Phil had been waiting for, “The message you deciphered wasn’t a jest Agent. It had been brought to my attention that there is a cancerous growth in SHEILD. My informants speculate it started with the inclusion of the former Nazi slash HYDRA scientists that my predecessor brought in during the previous decade.” 

Phil’s gaze sharpened and snapped to Fury as he demanded, “HYDRA was a real thing?” 

The nod he got in return did nothing to calm his panic. If HYDRA existed, that meant that Captain America also existed. His boyhood hero and foundation for every single rule of Phil’s strict moral code. It was Stark who popped up in response to his question stating clearly, “My father’s records indicate that not only was HYDRA real but so were all the rest of the stories. The Marksman also have records of an asset who was lost in the last World War. He is still counted as MIA and was attached to the Howling Commandos.” 

Phil nodded, that dazed disassociated feel had returned. Captain America had been a real living breathing hero. 

A loud bang had jolted Phil’s escalating panic before it got fully started as Fury snapped with a fist on his desk from where he had just slammed it down, “Coulson, focus.” 

Phil nodded taking a deep breath and rubbing his hands over his face. Another long deep breath and he raised his head back up to look a Fury before he asked, “What do you need me to do, sir?” 

The smirk he received warmed him from the inside. Fury nodded at him and replied, “I need you, with Barton’s help, to start weeding out double agents. See if you can find out the head asshole and work damage control. Everything that’s come across my desk says these moron’s are playing the long game and we won’t see much of anything from them for years to come. I need to know when they decide to play their hand that we’ll have people in place to contain the damage.” 

Phil nodded, he was perfectly set for that sort of work. He didn’t know anything about Barton but trusted that Fury wouldn’t trust a stranger who couldn’t do the job. Stark inserted his two cents once more saying, “The Marksman are also very interested in an international assassin known only as the Winter Soldier. Rumor says he’s a ghost but all the Intel we have been able to gather points to one of our assets. We don’t know what happened. If a Marksman has gone rogue it’s our responsibility to see that he’s stopped, so eyes and ears open for his signature.” 

Phil had heard those rumors and dark whisperings. Smirking Phil replied, “Listen for a ghost, covertly work on eradicating a cancerous growth in SHEILD and find the asshole in charge. Anything else Deputy Director?” 

Fury smirked and said, “All while performing your assigned duties and responsibilities.” 

Phil rolled his eyes and sighed. That was a given of course. Looking over at Barton the teenager gave him a cheeky smile before asking, “How are you with archery Agent Coulson?” Phil sighed and thought that his world definitely wouldn’t be dull anymore as Stark cackled in his chair on the otherside of the office.


End file.
